


Watch Me As I Glide Before I Tumble

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alistair being creepy, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crowley is a dragon, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Weird Biology, and scales and wings and a tail you get the picture, dragon!Crowley, magical creature abuse, so he has two dicks, unicorn!Castiel, unspecified time period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Crowley is a young dragon that has an encounter with Bobby, a young hunter, and it goes very, very well and then very, very badly. Years later, they meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I just got back from a very isolated area of the Peruvian rainforest, where there was little to no wifi and limited reading material, which led me to produce this weird mess of a story. It's kind of like "The Last Unicorn" meets Draylon's "Captain of Mordor" but with Crobby and dragons. Which means there is going to be freaky-deaky messy sex between a human (Bobby) and a humanoid dragon (Crowley). If that doesn't sound like your jam, fair enough.

Crowley's sleeping in his lair, hanging by his feet from the cave roof with his wings wrapped around himself, when a clatter from outside informs him that a human is approaching. He yawns, stretches his wings and arms, and draws himself up closer to the stone and shadow to hide and get a look at whatever knight has stumbled up to his home.

  
Crowley is a young dragon, just out of drakehood, with wings newly emerged and brilliantly-colored (for naught, in his opinion- wings are used for courtship display, and he has yet to encounter a dragon he'd even remotely consider worthy of mating). His scales are mostly a glossy, iridescent black, though his face and throat are a pale pink and his underbelly fades from deep blue to silvery, with bright orange flashes on his inner thighs. Black crests run down his head and spine, usually folded down but flaring up when he's angry or startled. Beyond the scales, wings and tail, he doesn't look like most dragons; he's only about five-foot-eight standing, and his shape is more mammalian than reptilian. He looks like a human wearing a dragon's skin, he's been told by others of his own kind. It's that kind of attitude that led him to live the way he does, alone except for the bats that share his cave (his nearest neighbors are a human town maybe thirty miles away and another, deeply unpleasant dragon, who lives in the next mountain).

  
The human steps into view, silhouetted by the setting sun outside. It's a man, perhaps in his early twenties, with sandy brown hair and a square jaw. In his hands he carries a rifle, and at his belt he has a knife that smells of magic. He's carrying a pack that has all sorts of fascinating scents coming from it, and Crowley finds himself curious. His claws grip at the ceiling, hands and feet and the thumb-talons on his wings carrying him along the rock face closer to his visitor. When he's directly above the man, he gets a proper sniff in, a breath of scent from the man himself, and oh. That's good. The man smells musky and sweaty from the climb, and under that he smells of books and smoke and strange spices, and Crowley wants more of it, wants to know the name of every book and every spice. His hands release their grip, his wings straining as he stretches his upper body downward, toward the human.

  
The man looks up suddenly, sees him, stumbles backward with a shout and raises his gun directly at Crowley's head. The dragon almost sighs in disappointment; such a typical reaction. He feels his fire bladder pulse, ready to spit a flood of scorching heat at his attacker.

  
The man lowers his rifle just a smidge. "You don't look much like a normal dragon."

  
"And you don't look like much of a knight, but you don't hear me passing judgement," Crowley retorts, swallowing his flame. He swings down from the ceiling, maintaining his balance with a flap of his wings before folding them behind his back. The hunter's eyes follow the movement warily, but with a spark of intense interest.

  
The man huffs. "Don't know that anyone would call me a knight." He's still moving, sidling around to block the cavemouth- he doesn't know there's another way out, straight up through a series of tunnels in the mountain. A convenient back-door for creatures with wings.

  
"What do they call you, then?" Crowley asks, raising a brow.

  
The human looks startled, and he clears his throat and adjusts his stance before answering. "Bobby. I'm a hunter."

  
Crowley nods. "Bobby. Short for Robert?" He knows his way around human names; he reads quite a bit in his spare time, and catches plenty of conversations on his nightly flights.

  
The hunter goes a bit red. "Maybe."

  
"Well, Robert," the dragon all but purrs. "Why are you here? Did you come to slay a dragon?"

  
The blush deepens. "I came to slay whatever's been killing girls in the towns around this mountain."

  
"Oh, that. Dull." Crowley waves a wing dismissively, and catches the sharp glance Bobby throws at it as well as the hitch in his breath. "That'll be Azazel, the big fellow on the next slope over. He's quite a fan of the young human ladies, particularly blondes. I prefer mutton, myself."

  
Bobby squints at him. "You're trying to tell me you don't eat humans at all?"

  
"Oh, not hardly," Crowley grins, baring his teeth. "I only eat knights and the like; I enjoy a bit of fight for my meal."

  
The human peers speculatively at him. "What's this Azazel look like?"

  
"He's hard to miss," Crowley snorts. "Proper salamander, all claws and teeth and yellow eyes. Maybe the size of a barn. Sort of orangey scales. Disinclined to hold a conversation." The few times he's tried to talk to his neighbor, Crowley has had to run off very quickly, alternately because Azazel is hungry, or because he's in his rut.

  
Bobby lowers his gun further. "That does match the descriptions the town gave me." He cocks his head and looks Crowley up and down. "What are you, anyway? If you're not a 'proper salamander'." He says the last words with a poor imitation of Crowley's accent.

  
Crowley narrows his eyes at the human. "I'm just as much a dragon as he is; I'm simply of a different stock."

  
"You look-" Bobby starts, stops, like he's realized he's about to say something insulting. Or maybe he's just realized he's having a conversation with a dragon.

  
"Human in a dragon skin, I know," Crowley supplies, rolling his eyes.

  
"No, no," Bobby shakes his head. "Just- your coloring, on your wings. I've never seen that kind of pattern or color." He flushes again. "I, uh- I do a lot of research on supernatural creatures."

  
Crowley glances in surprise at his wings, with their vivid red-yellow-black eyespots and delicate gold striations, then back at Bobby. "Seen a lot of dragon wings, have you?"

  
Bobby shrugs. "Just- in my line of work." His line of work. His line of work which apparently involves hunting down and murdering members of Crowley's own species.

  
Crowley's never much cared for other members of his own species.

  
"Want to get a closer look?" He offers, sauntering closer.

  
Bobby swallows hard. The gun clatters to the stone floor.

  
Crowley angles his wings up and out, flashing the bright patterns temptingly on instinct, and the human shuffles toward him, extending a cautious hand. The dragon tips his left wing forward boldly, running the membrane under Bobby's palm, and sees the hunter's pupils blow wide. The musky smell is overpowering now, filling Crowley's nose and making his body respond with pheromones of its own.

  
"Amazing," Bobby murmurs under his breath, and Crowley's hearts pump a bit faster, sending more blood to his wings and the flares on his thighs. Bobby licks his lips, and the motion stirs heat between Crowley's legs, makes the slit on his sheath part slightly in anticipation.

  
Crowley reaches out with his left hand to return the attention, running careful claws over the soft, slightly freckled skin of Bobby's cheek. To his surprise, the man leans into the touch, closing his eyes and pressing into the cool scales against his jaw. Crowley leans in a bit more, nostrils flaring as he breathes in, greedy for Bobby's scent. Bobby's eyes snap open suddenly, and Crowley goes tense, worried that the human is concealing a weapon or has suddenly realized what he's doing and is balking at the idea of touching a dragon like this, but-

  
"What's your name?" Bobby asks, and Crowley almost laughs in relief. The hunter blushes again and stammers, "I- I should have asked earlier, but I thought- I just- if we're going to-"

  
"Crowley," the dragon interrupts, a smile curling one corner of his mouth where the scales are fine as sand. "I'm Crowley."

  
"Crowley," Bobby echoes, and then he's leaning in and doing something strange, pressing his mouth against Crowley's, and it should be alien and unpleasant but it isn't; he's rather enjoying it, he finds. The human angles his head, opens his mouth and uses the hot, wet slide of his tongue to sneak Crowley's lips apart and steal inside. The dragon's tongue is long and narrow, slightly forked at the tip, and Bobby moans when Crowley responds with it. He releases Crowley's wing and instead fits both hands to the curve of the dragon's head, cupping and pulling him closer while Crowley drags one hand through his hair, fists the other into the rough shirt he wears.

  
The hunter breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and shifts his shoulders back and forth. It looks very odd for a moment before Crowley realizes that he's pulling off the pack he carries, dropping it carelessly and stepping back in to run his hands down Crowley's sides like he can't stand not to be touching the scaled creature. Crowley's wings flap excitedly, and he uses a talon to slice open the fabric of Bobby's shirt. His attention is immediately drawn to the tanned, slightly hairy skin revealed, and he ducks his head and flicks his tongue against Bobby's chest curiously. This makes Bobby gasp and shudder against him, so Crowley repeats the action a few times, and each time the gasp is louder, the shudder a bit more prolonged. Finally Bobby's hands scrabble up his spine, one curving around his shoulder and the other stroking over the rising crests on his head.

  
Crowley steps back, twining his tail around Bobby's wrist and tugging the hunter down with him to the cave floor. Bobby starts to follow, then pauses. Without breaking the hold on his wrist, he leans back and rummages around in his pack, tugging out a rolled-up blanket and a few bottles of something fluid and sweet-smelling. He spreads the blanket out and Crowley rolls obligingly onto it, settling onto his back after a moment's deliberation. He spreads his wings out to their full length, parts his legs to show off the eye-catching orange that's gone almost red now, and Bobby drops all the bottles he's holding. He falls to his knees between the dragon's legs and runs a hand- trembling slightly, Crowley notes- up one leg. Crowley's tail winds around Bobby's thigh, squeezing appreciatively, and the human's breath hitches again.

  
"God," he says, voice breaking a little. "God, you incredible- gorgeous-" He ducks his head and presses his mouth to Crowley's chest, his collarbone, the thin arm of his right wing, the center of the wing's largest eyespot. Crowley squirms at the sensation, reaching up with his back legs and using the dexterous claws of his feet to yank at the human's trousers. Bobby leans back enough to help him discard of the belt and tug the pants down, and Crowley blinks in surprise.

  
"Interesting," he says, which is probably not what Bobby was expecting, judging by the way he goes beet-red and ducks his head.

  
"What?" The human asks indignantly, uncertainly.

  
Crowley shakes his head. "Sorry, darling, that came out wrong. I only meant- well." He slides a hand down his own belly, presses against his sheath until his own arousal emerges from the slit.

  
"Oh," says Bobby.

  
"Yes."

  
"You've got-"

  
"Two, yes."

  
Bobby clears his throat. "Are- do all dragons have...?"

  
"Of course."

  
"Of course," Bobby echoes weakly. He raises a hand, fingers curling in and out. "Can I?"

  
"Go right ahead." Crowley lets his own hand, which had been absently squeezing the bases of his- the correct term is hemipenes- drop to the blanket, and his legs spread a bit more. He's not fully hard yet, but he's close, and he gets closer when the hunter reaches out and tentatively brushes warm fingertips up the length of one, then the other. The dragon's thighs flex, his back curving encouragingly.

  
Bobby closes his fist around both lengths, strokes up and down once and Crowley moans, head falling back. That seems to kick Bobby back into action; he growls under his breath and lunges forward to latch his mouth onto Crowley's exposed throat, his hand working faster between them. Crowley's wings flap and stretch behind him, tangling the blanket, and his tail coils against Bobby's back. Bobby's free hand slides up Crowley's leg, settles just below his sheath and presses, rubbing gentle circles into the soft skin with the pad of his thumb. Crowley's breath catches when the tip of Bobby's thumb finds the dip in his scales, the small tender spot that clenches and opens and Bobby groans against Crowley's throat and presses a little firmer. Crowley gasps and squirms and Bobby's thumb sinks in past the muscle that squeezes greedily at him.  
Bobby makes a helpless sound in the back of his throat, nudges his thumb deeper and deeper and Crowley shudders. The heel of the hunter's palm presses against Crowley's scales, and he sits back, pulls his hands away (eliciting a sound of feverish complaint from the dragon) and reaches back for the bottles he dropped earlier. He grabs one, spares the briefest glance at the label and nods before uncorking it and pouring the oily substance into his palm.

  
"Can I?" He asks again, and Crowley nods urgently.

  
The human takes hold of one of Crowley's legs, brings it up to rest against his hip, lets the dragon's tail wrap around his waist once more before leaning in and placing trembling fingers at his entrance. Torn between apprehension and impatience, Crowley kneads at the blanket with one hand, Bobby's thigh with the other, and he growl-whimpers when the hunter finally slides two fingers into him.

  
Bobby is fumbling, not exactly careful, but certainly trying to be. It's not long before Crowley uses his tail to drag the man closer, sliding their hips together and dislodging his fingers. Bobby gasps and shudders against him, rutting slippery and frantic, his cock nestled between Crowley's. A stray thrust drags the head of his erection over the now-wet hollow below, and they both moan at the sensation. Bobby takes hold of himself and pushes, sliding past reflexive resistance and deep into the tightening passage.

  
"Oh, god," he pants, falling forward so that Crowley can feel how his chest heaves and his one heart pounds. "I can- I can feel you," the human says, insensate, mouthing at the dragon's jaw. "Oh fuck, you feel- you feel so good- I- fuck-"

  
Crowley isn't much more coherent; he manages a hoarse, "More- Robert, harder, more now, now-" and cries out when Bobby's hips rock into his roughly, pistoning hard enough to move them both across the blanket. The dragon flaps his wings spasmodically, using the force to flip their positions so that he sits astride the hunter and rolls back into his urgent movements. Bobby looks enraptured at the sight, reaches out to run his fingers down the curve of one wing. Crowley takes hold of the human's hand, leads his touch down, and Bobby takes the hint and grips both his lengths in one fist, moving fast and shaky. It's enough; Crowley throws his head back and spits a burst of flame toward the cave roof, roaring as he comes, thick silvery-blue spilling across Bobby's hand and down his arm. Bobby is almost hyperventilating as he grabs Crowley's hips, plunges up into him and groans, stuttering throaty noises as he fills Crowley with one, two, three more quick jerks.

  
His wings beat slowly at the air, and Crowley makes a deep, rumbling sound of satisfaction as he lowers himself down and nuzzles at the sweaty, blood-hot skin of Bobby's chest. The hunter strokes one hand down the smooth length of Crowley's tail, the other tracing fingertips over the patterns on his wings. The dragon's thighs tense as he lifts himself up, lets Bobby's softening cock slip out of him and shivers, clenching up around the empty wetness left behind. Bobby watches him settle onto the blanket with a soft expression, still with a little of his earlier wonder and awe, and Crowley can't help but preen a little under it.

  
He reaches off the blanket with one wing and scoops up a half-empty bottle of fine scotch that he pulled from his hoard the other day. He opens it and offers some to Bobby, who sniffs it, takes a swig, and coughs until tears come to his eyes. Crowley chuckles and takes a swallow- alcohol doesn't burn much compared to actual fire- then rolls the bottle away and turns on his side, resting his cheek against his curled tail. Bobby lies down too, facing him, and grins bashfully when the dragon drapes one wing over the both of them. The hunter reaches out and rubs tentatively between the crests on Crowley's head, and he thrums, eyes rolling back ecstatically. He opens his mouth to speak, but it morphs into a wide yawn.

  
"Tired?" Bobby asks, withdrawing his hand and pillowing his cheek into it.

  
"Hmm," Crowley responds lazily, in between slow blinks. "Maybe a bit. Might take a nap. Have another go when I wake up."

  
"A nap sounds good," Bobby agrees, shifting comfortably and closing his eyes. "And that second thing, that sounds especially good."

  
The dragon's soft laugh echoes through the cave, then fades into peaceful silence. 


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes feeling strange.

  
Crowley rolls over and realizes that he's sleeping on the floor of the cave, rather than clinging to the ceiling. Usually that would mean he's sick or injured, but he doesn't remember feeling ill or fighting anything... he remembers-

  
_Bobby_. He forces his eyes open, groggy and light-headed, and blinks several times, trying to pick out the shape of the human next to him. But there's no one next to him; the cave is empty apart from himself and a few bats.

  
He sits up slowly, leaning his weight on the elbows of his wings. Why is he so tired? Where did Bobby go? He's thinking like a hatchling, one tiny thought at a time, trying to puzzle out his confusion. Then he sees the lines painted across the cave floor while he slept, the dark mixture of mountain ash, salt and oxblood forming runes that bind magic. He forces himself up onto all fours, panic cutting through the fog laid down by the runes. Stupid, he's so stupid. His tail lashes against the floor, echoing hollowly and sending the bats scattering. Flames lick around the corners of his mouth, and the crests on his head stand on-end as he hurls himself at the magical barrier surrounding him. It does nothing; he is repelled and thrown back against the stone. He flaps his wings, trying for the passages above him, but as soon as he reaches the ceiling he plummets painfully down, as if he'd struck the cave roof. He roars, and the sound shakes stalactites loose, sends a rumble through the mountain itself, but does nothing against the binding spell.

  
He's trapped.

  
He paces the length of the circle, searching for something within his reach that could be used to negate the ash, but Bobby has him bound well away from his hoard, away from anything that could help. Why didn't Bobby kill him? At the very least, why didn't he steal his hoard? It's hidden, but a man clever enough to capture a dragon could have found it. A chilling thought strikes him. Dragon blood has many uses, he's heard, for humans. It can cure most ailments, give the gift of tongues (allowing them to understand and speak any language, beast, bird, human or magical creature alike), even regrow lost limbs in some cases. Scales can be ground into powders, used for their vivid colors as paints, or used whole in some countries as currency. Limbs, lungs, heart, liver, eyes, teeth, claws. He knows they fetch a high price- knights and hunters often say that a dragon's carcass is worth more than all its gold. Perhaps Bobby intends to keep him here and harvest bits and pieces of him; keep him fresh for longer. If that's his game, Crowley isn't about to go down without a fight. He hunches as close to the wall as he can get, hunkering down and watching the entrance.

  
He waits.

  
It's two days before he hears someone come clambering up the mountainside, and by then he's weak from thirst and the powerful spell's oppressive smog. He tenses, feels his fire bladder warm up.

  
The man that approaches his cave is unfamiliar. He's taller than Bobby, lankier, and he wears a heavy, patchwork cloak with a dozen pockets. When he sees Crowley, he smiles like a predator, like Azazel does before he lunges at the smaller dragon. "Well, well, well," he says, and his voice is strange and unsettling. "Look at you, all trussed up and nowhere to go. Still alive, even. I would've thought he'd kill you for easy delivery, but I'm not complaining. This is much better."

  
Crowley snarls and spits his flame, but it's small and the man dodges it, reaches into a pocket and throws a handful of thick grey powder at him. It smothers his flame, chokes him, squeezes the air from his lungs, and he stumbles to his knees, catches himself on his talons.

  
Still smirking, the man steps into the cave and over the binding lines seemingly without a care for the deadly creature inside. He strides up to Crowley's cough-wracked form, makes a gesture with his hands and mutters a few words under his breath. The dragon's muscles all seize up at once, and he falls fully to the ground in a limp heap. The man stoops over him, runs a hand appreciatively down his side, over his back, along his tail, his wings, cups his chin and looks at his teeth like he's examining livestock. Crowley can't move, can't snarl or bite or flame.

  
"Much better," the man repeats, almost crooning the words. "Nice and small, too, good for transport. And look at these wings..." He unfolds one of them, peers at the patterning, and Crowley feels sick. "Hmm, freshly-molted, I'd say. Aren't you a beauty?" He looks around the cave briefly, humming to himself. "No mate yet, either. Must be very freshly-molted, then, not to have been snatched up yet, eh, pretty thing like you?" He's still smiling, speaking softly to the paralyzed dragon as he pets his scales, squeezes his muscles. His hand moves down, strokes over the brilliant flares on Crowley's inner thighs, inward to the still-tender spot between his legs. "Oho. Maybe not so." His fingers press cruelly in, finding everything, and Crowley's chest heaves in a cut-off roar or sob, silent and terrified. "Someone's been having a nose-around, hm? Maybe it's that big fella from the next mountain." He twists his fingers, and Crowley whimpers. "Maybe not him," the man muses. "Doesn't seem like enough damage." He withdraws his hand, finally, and looks down at his slick fingers in seeming surprise. He bursts out laughing.

  
"So that's it! That dirty bastard." He chuckles delightedly, wipes his fingers against Crowley's leg. "He certainly got his money's worth out of you." He stands, hauling Crowley with him, and slings the dragon over his shoulder. "Well, my pretty little salamander, my name's Alistair. Welcome to my show." He waves his hand in another complicated gesture, and the lines of Bobby's spell glow and disintegrate. Crowley hopes for a desperate moment that this means he can move, but Alistair's own spell holds firm. The taller man carries him down the slope, and soon a caravan comes into view, about a dozen covered carts and wagons drawn by horses, mules, and oxen. He throws back the cover of one, and Crowley sees that it is a heavy cage on wheels.

  
He's been sold. He wishes he could twist his head and look back at his mountain once more, because he knows he will never see it again.


	3. Chapter 3

He's been on display in Alistair's Travelling Wonders and Horrors for thirty years now.

  
He and the unicorn, Castiel, in the next cage, are the only genuine articles in the place (the unicorn first arrived two years ago, and seems to want nothing to do with him. Fair enough). Everything else- the manticore, the werewolf, the Midgard serpent- are just illusions cast over common beasts by Alistair to fool the punters. The crowds eat it up, but every now and then someone with an eye for the supernatural will come through, shaking their head at every cage. Then they stop and stare, sigh wistfully and blink away tears at the sight of Castiel in his cage, with its peeling silver paint. When they get to Crowley's cage, they jerk back and stink of fear and disgust, and occasionally he rolls an eye and produces a lick of flame- all he can manage at this point- and they hurry away.

  
One day he's willfully ignoring a cluster of gawkers, trying to get a nap despite the chafe of the chains around his throat, the muzzle clamping his mouth shut and the iron contraption Alistair dreamed up that keeps his wings pinned and his fire bladder closed off, when a voice catches his attention.

  
"This one's real," the voice is young, male, and it's not the words so much as the tone that makes him blink. Whoever it is, they are talking to someone else, and they are trying to be secretive about it. Why? Why bother?

  
Crowley lifts his head just enough to glance over his shoulder at the speaker. Bloody hell, he looks like he should be in the carnival himself- he might be half-giant, this boy. The man he's speaking to is lost in the crowd, and despite himself Crowley strains to see him when he hears him respond.

  
"Definitely. That makes two here, the unicorn and the... wait a minute..."

  
It can't be. It has to be. It's been years but he knows that voice. Struggling, fighting against the chains, Crowley twists himself over and peers through the bars, and between the outstretched fingers of the crowd, he sees him.

  
Bobby has aged, as humans do, put on weight and lost hair in some places, gained it in others, gathered scars. His eyes have deep lines around them, and his strong jaw is hidden by a greying beard. At the sight of him, Crowley is stricken with a double bolt of longing and fury, so intense it leaves him dazed.

  
The hunter takes a few steps closer to his cage, coming to a halt next to the tall young man, his eyes fixed on the dragon. Crowley can't tear his own eyes away, wants to strain forward and breath in the smell of books and smoke and spices just as much as he wants to lunge forward and bite and flame.

  
"Bobby?" The taller human asks, sounding concerned. "You okay?" He glances at Crowley's hunched form. "This... it is a dragon, right? It's kind of small and... um, weird-looking."

  
Crowley doesn't have the energy to roll his eyes, but he sighs heavily, and Bobby takes a step back, looking pale.

  
"No," he says, shaking himself. "I thought- no, it's nothing. We should get out of here."

  
They both retreat back into the crowd, blending in somehow despite the giant's stature. It feels like a knife in Crowley's belly, twisting the air from his lungs and freezing the blood in his hearts. He thrashes, wings flailing in their bindings and tail beating against the wall of the cage, and the crowd shrieks. His fire bladder pulses, trying to bring up a gout of flame but only making his throat burn and smoke leak from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. He tries to call Bobby's name, tries harder than he has in years, struggling to make a sound. The magic on the muzzle holds, and all that comes out is a muffled, weakened rumble, like thunder over the far-off mountains, signalling a storm that never arrives.


	4. Chapter 4

It's well after midnight when Crowley wakes, sore and stiff. After the ruckus he pulled earlier, Alistair gave him a few well-placed jabs with the iron staff he uses to keep his beasts in line, and then removed the water bucket from his cage. The day was dry and hot enough that Crowley ended up panting and slumped on the floor by the time the sun went down. When feeding time arrived, Alistair passed him with a haunch of mutton, dropping it in front of the dogs and smirking while he watched, empty-bellied, before the man moved on to feed the other attractions. Crowley knows he's in for a week or so of more of the same.

  
He noses around in the moldy hay at the bottom of his cage, hoping that a mouse or two might have crept in. No such luck. He shifts and tries to keep pressure off his aching limbs, glancing around for whatever woke him.

  
A figure slips past the curtain that surrounds the camp, walking quick and low toward the dogs, who are sleeping around the cages. The hounds raise their heads and snarl once before the figure drops a steak in front of them. They fall on it like they didn't devour an entire haunch of mutton a few hours ago, pacified, and the figure stands up. And up, and up. It's the towering human from earlier.

  
He can't lift his head at the moment, weighed down by the chain and the beating, but Crowley peers with bruised eyes into the dark (he has quite good night vision) at the edge of camp. A second human follows the first- tall but not as tall as the first man, with shorter hair and green eyes; he was here earlier too, loitering around Castiel's cage- and then a third, moving slower than the younger two. Bobby. Crowley tries to take a deep breath, but his nose is clotted with blood, too thick to smell anything but copper.

  
The humans make their way through the camp silently, and the green-eyed one pulls out a complicated-looking tool and starts fiddling with the lock on Castiel's cage. The tall one takes out a book and a handful of- salt, maybe- and starts chanting under his breath, and the runes holding the unicorn prisoner light up and start to dissipate. Bobby walks slowly toward Crowley's cage, and the dragon's tail gives a weak flick- the only movement he can manage at the moment. The hunter stops about thirty paces back, staring hard, his expression inscrutable. Crowley stares back, sides moving in slow, heaving breaths. A moment passes, an instant, an eternity. Then Bobby turns away, takes a lockpick of his own from his pocket and begins methodically releasing the other animals, the ones not bound by magic, from their cages: the garden snake, the raccoon, the old mountain lion. They all slink away into the night and don't look back.

  
The two younger ones are still working at the next cage, cancelling out the wards and prying open the lock to let Castiel out. The unicorn steps out and accepts the coat they offer him. He's not horse-shaped at the moment; he's assumed the form of a smooth-skinned, dark-haired human with spooky blue eyes and a faint circular scar on his forehead, presumably to make his escape easier. Or, Crowley thinks as he sees the look that passes between Castiel and the green-eyed human, for other reasons entirely.

  
They shuffle past his cage on their way out, and Crowley wants to yell, to roar, to ask them to set him free or kill him, to speak Bobby's name and see recognition in his eyes one last time.

  
Bobby pauses in front of his cage, and Crowley's hearts pound hopefully in spite of himself. He fights to raise his head and meets the hunter's gaze steadily. He doesn't try to speak, but his wings try again and again to unfold in their bindings, muscles grown weak from disuse. His talons scratch at the wooden walls.

  
"Should we?" Asks the tall human, raising the book in his hands.

  
"Are you crazy?" The shorter one snaps back, not looking at Crowley. "It's a dragon. If we let it out now, we'll just have to hunt it down and kill it later."

  
"So we should just kill it now?"

  
"Not a bad idea."

  
Bobby is silent, but he looks at the knife in his belt. Crowley looks at it, too, hoping, and sees the old hunter follow his desperate gaze. Better the knife, the gun, better to die now than spend the rest of his immortality in this haze of pain and squalor and degradation.

  
Surprisingly, it's Castiel who speaks up for him. "Please don't leave him," he pleads with the green-eyed man in his sorrowful, throaty voice. "Don't leave him in this place; he doesn't deserve to be here any more than I do."

  
Crowley could kiss the sparkly bastard. He's also a little shocked; they're both magical creatures but he's always thought that Castiel rated himself in a higher category than the likes of a dragon.

  
The tall youth steps forward cautiously and starts examining the lock and runes, but Castiel reaches out and touches the door, and the runes melt away, leaving only a simple iron padlock. Bobby uses his lockpick, and within moments there's a click and the door opens with some reluctance, rusted over from years of rain and ice. Crowley wishes with all the fury of a wild thing held captive that he could stand and walk out of his prison on his own legs, or better yet, fly out into the night sky, but his body won't listen to his commands and he can only lie there, immobilized. Then there are hands, shocking in their warm and tentative touch, fumbling with the chains and collar, unlocking and lifting and pulling away weight after weight. There's a pause, and he can tell they're looking for the release on his muzzle and the iron corset clamped around his wings. There are no releases on either of them. They'll have to be cut off later, the humans agree, and then he's being lifted, quickly but not roughly, and carried out.

  
The sight of the stars above breaks something open in him, and his chest heaves once in a sob that he tries to swallow. Whoever is carrying him- he can't see their face, and he can't smell well enough to identify them at the moment- shifts him carefully so that he can see the trees, the road beyond the camp, and he sighs out a breath when they cross the threshold. His body seems to take that as a sign to let all the abuse its endured catch up with him, and he's unconscious before they reach the road.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes with a jolt in an unfamiliar place.

  
He's disoriented, pain still dragging his mind down, and for a few moments he feels the muzzle's bite and the crushing vice around his wings and thinks he must have dreamed the whole thing, that he's still in Alistair's caravan. He feels a wicked stab of embarrassment and resentment at himself for conjuring up such a ridiculous scenario- Bobby coming to rescue him after thirty years.

  
Then he shifts and turns and sees that he's not resting under the weight of chains on the filthy floor of his cage. He's been laid down on a worn old sofa in someone's living room, his tail draped down onto a thick carpet, his head on a well-used pillow. He blinks. The room doesn't change, doesn't fade away into wherever dreams go. He runs a hand experimentally over the nubby upholstery, marveling at the freedom of movement and the texture of something other than hay, wood, or iron.  
There's a sound to his right, and he turns his head to see Castiel, sitting placidly at a table on the other side of the room. He holds a mug of something that steams, and he sips at it like he's still not used to having fingers or human lips. The tall human is sitting next to him, reading a heavy tome with great concentration, and the slightly shorter one is standing between them, watching both activities intently. Behind him, digging through a bookshelf and muttering under his breath, is Bobby.

  
Castiel looks up and meets Crowley's eyes, nodding a slightly aloof greeting. He returns it, gaze darting back and forth between the humans, and the unicorn turns to speak softly to them. The two young ones look up in sync, staring at Crowley, who has to fight not to shrink back against the cushions. "Bobby," the tall one says, and the older hunter turns to look at him. "He's awake. Should we try it?"

  
"Yep." Bobby nods once, succinct, and drops a book onto the table. "Is everything ready?"

  
The other human nods and steps out of the room, and now Crowley really, really wants to shrink back. He wants to disappear. He wants no part in whatever they have planned for him.

  
The tall human- and Crowley is getting annoyed at not knowing their names, so he's just going to refer to that one as Moose- steps back in with a box of tools, clippers and saws and shears and Crowley's empty stomach drops out at the sight of it. He knows very, very well what kinds of things can be done to a body with those tools.

  
Castiel catches his terrified stare and speaks again. "They're going to cut the muzzle off," he explains, "And the- other thing. They won't hurt you, I think."

  
The soul of comfort, that bloody unicorn.

  
"As long as he keeps the claws and teeth and fire to himself, we won't hurt 'im," says Not-Moose.

  
Crowley nods to show his understanding, and Moose takes out a pair of heavy hedge trimmers. He tries to slip them under the thick iron bar that attaches the muzzle to Crowley's throat, but it's welded tight and soon a line of blood is running down the dragon's neck, a few scales flaking off while he holds himself as still as possible. Moose makes a frustrated sound and tries again from a different angle, but only manages to clip off the end of one of the ridges on Crowley's spine, making them both wince.

  
"Let me do it," Bobby says suddenly, sounding as tense as Crowley feels.

  
Obediently, Moose stands aside and hands over the clippers. "Sorry," he says, though whether he's speaking to Bobby or Crowley isn't clear.

  
Bobby places a steadying hand on the dragon's shoulder, just for a moment, and Crowley's pulse hammers. He tries ordering it to stop that, to no avail as Bobby places the blade edge of the tool against the hollow of his throat. He's trembling uncontrollably, no matter how hard he grips the sofa, and his tail drums against the floor. Bobby's fingers are rough from use, but they move gently over his scales in slow motions, almost petting with the backs of his knuckles as he shifts the clippers.

  
The hunter's arms flex, and there's a clank as the heavy muzzle falls to the floor.

  
Crowley breathes in through his mouth, shallow thanks to the binding still around his sides, but blissfully not tasting of iron and copper and Alistair's smothering magic. He licks his lips with his dry tongue, looks up at the humans. "Robert," he says, his voice barely a raspy croak as it forms the first word he's been able to speak in thirty years.

  
Bobby meets his gaze at last, looking something like sorrowful. "Crowley."

  
The others look startled, blinking at Bobby, at Crowley, at each other. "You... know him?" Not-Moose asks Bobby.

  
Bobby doesn't answer, but he bends and begins working at the contraption around Crowley's middle. His fingers brush the tattered membrane of one wing, and they both flinch away in the same moment, Crowley from pain and instinct, Bobby presumably from disgust. The hunter sucks in a breath through his teeth, ducks back down and keeps working. The device is like a series of metal ribs connected by a rod that is more or less stapled into the flesh over his spine. Bobby clips them one by one, disconnecting them from the rod and then switching tools, reaching behind him for a pair of pliers. "This is gonna hurt," he warns.

  
Crowley shrugs. It's nothing at this point. "Any chance of a decent drink?" He asks hoarsely, glancing around at the room.  
Bobby huffs out a sound that could be laughter, but Moose, Castiel and Not-Moose look uncertain.

"I'm not giving alcohol to something that breathes fire," Not-Moose says firmly.

  
Crowley would sigh if he could, but his breath is still cut short. Bobby starts prying the hooks loose, taking flesh and scales with them despite his obvious efforts to be careful. The dragon endures it with barely a twitch, only moving when Bobby's skin brushes his scales or the bare patches left behind where they've fallen out.

  
Finally, finally, the tangle of metal is freed from his body, dropped without a second glance, and Crowley breathes in and in and in and he smells books and smoke and spices over his own blood and the final, dissolving remnants of Alistair's magic.

He closes his eyes, opens them and lets out the breath.

  
They're all looking at him, the boys with wary apprehension, like they expect him to lunge forward and burn the house down, Castiel with distant concern and understanding. Bobby is staring at his face like he's memorizing it or comparing it to the one he knew three decades ago. Crowley pushes himself very shakily off the couch, wobbles his way toward the door. No one stops him as he taps it open and steps out into the backyard. He almost jumps in surprise when he feels the soft brush of moss under his feet. Castiel's already been out here; the yard is overflowing with thick, pungent grasses and luscious flowers, and small birds are trilling sweetly in the trees around him.

  
Crowley spreads his wings slowly, feeling the joints protest after ages of cramped confinement. He shakes himself from head to toe, shedding a few loose scales and bits of clinging hay. He throws his head back and spits a plume of flame ten meters long at the early glow of dawn, roaring his freedom loud enough to send the birds whirling away in alarm.

  
When he finally stops, he turns to see Bobby standing alone in the doorway. The others are nowhere to be seen, presumably somewhere in the house waiting to see if he's going to turn on them. He folds his wings, breathing hard for a few moments as they regard one another.

  
"I didn't think you recognized me," he says instead of a greeting.

  
Bobby lowers his gaze. "I recognized you," he says softly. "I was just sort of- I hoped I was wrong."

  
Crowley nods. If he were a human that sold dragons into slavery, he'd never want to run into said dragons again either. "And now? Finally planning to finish the job and slay me?"

  
Bobby flinches away like Crowley spoke flame instead of words. "No," he says sharply. "God, no."

  
The dragon frowns. This is hardly the headstrong, righteous, driven young man he encountered in the cave; the years have worn that righteousness down to something resigned and weary, like a blade that's seen too many battles. "So what do you want with me?"

  
The hunter shakes his head, doesn't answer for a moment. He gestures at the house. "Well, for starters you could come in out of my yard and quit scaring the wildlife."

  
Crowley hesitates, but well, where else is there to go? He follows Bobby back into the house. He's partially expecting the two boys to be standing inside with guns and knives at the ready, but is surprised to find that instead of gunpowder and binding magic, the place smells of coffee, fresh bread and sizzling pork fat. The boys are in the kitchen, Moose setting out plates and Not-Moose standing at the stove, shoving bacon around in a pan, while Castiel sits in front of the window and appears to be comforting the birds that Crowley frightened.

  
Bobby clears his throat. "This is Sam," he gestures at Moose, who nods and offers a curious smile. "And Dean," he waves at Not-Moose, who barely glances up from his cooking. "Boys, this is Crowley. He's a dragon." He adds this last comment seemingly as an afterthought, as though confirming Sam's previous question at last.

  
"And you two- know each other?" Sam raises a brow and sets the last piece of mismatched silverware down. There are five places set at the table, to Crowley's surprise. Either there's someone else coming that he doesn't know about, or they're expecting him to eat with them.

  
"Oh, Robert and I were quite well-acquainted for a brief time," Crowley says before Bobby can explain. He carefully takes a seat at the table, crosses one leg over the other to appear casual even as his body warns him not to overdo this whole movement thing so soon. "A very brief time. Ages ago, it seems."

  
Behind him, Bobby sighs heavily, and now even Castiel is looking at him with intense speculation. Crowley grins knowingly and tucks his wings closer to his back to keep from catching them on the chair.

  
"Let's just eat, alright?" Bobby takes a seat to the right of Crowley, who fights the sudden impulse to scoot his own chair closer to the hunter's. "You can pester me with questions later, and I can refuse to answer them better when I've had my coffee." He reaches for the steaming caraffe and pours himself a mug.

  
Sam sits on Bobby's other side, and Castiel sits on Crowley's left, leaving a space between himself and Sam for Dean to sit. Dean turns away from the stove with the pan of bacon, scooping a few slices onto Sam's plate, then offers some to Castiel. The unicorn looks ill at the thought, and Dean quickly pulls the pan away and dumps a few pieces onto his own dish. When Bobby grabs a fork and reaches for the remaining slices, Dean smacks his hand away.

  
"None for you, old man, your heart's bad enough as it is without clogging it up with bacon grease."

  
Bobby makes a face and turns to Sam, who looks pleased. "Dammit, son, it was bad enough with you on my case, you had to go and convince your brother that I need to eat rabbit food too?"

  
"Not rabbit food," Sam says primly, picking up a heavy clay pot and spooning out a thick, sweet-smelling goop onto Bobby's plate and then his own. "Healthy food. Oatmeal, fruit, that kind of thing."

  
Bobby moans mournfully. Crowley is amused.

  
"That's probably for the best, Robert," he puts in with as much gravity as he can muster. "You humans are so very fragile."

  
He looks up to find Dean looking at him with a startled expression before wordlessly scraping six slices of bacon onto the dragon's plate. Crowley's stomach rumbles. Sam offers him a heaping spoonful of oatmeal, and he shrugs and nods- he's never had it before, but he will literally eat anything at this point. A piece of hearty, toasted bread is added to his plate, a mug of coffee appearing next to it, and he feels like he passed some sort of test.

  
"Great," Bobby says, rolling his eyes dramatically upward. "Now there's even more of you ungrateful bastards working against me and my tastebuds."

  
Crowley chuckles, and then applies himself to his meal- the bacon is the first thing to go, inhaled in seconds, followed by the raisin-studded bread, which he smears with creamed honey from the small pot on the table, and lastly the oatmeal, which isn't as bad as it looks. He eyes the coffee for a moment before taking a sip and making a face- it's scalding hot, which is perfect, but so bitter he sticks his tongue out. Bobby laughs aloud at that, and scoots a pot of brown sugar toward him. Crowley finds that a few heaping spoonfuls of that make the coffee much more bearable.

  
When the meal is over, Bobby stands and nods Crowley toward the hall, so the dragon rises from his chair and follows while the others begin to clear the table.

  
"C'mon." Bobby places a hand against the small of Crowley's back, seemingly without thinking, and guides him (or rather Crowley allows himself to be guided) toward the stairs. "You need rest, and maybe a bath." He pauses. "Do you- can you take baths?"

  
"I won't melt, if that's what you're asking," Crowley replies. He used to clean himself in the cold mountain streams, forever ago, but he hasn't been able to so much as wipe himself down with a wet cloth in years. A bath- a hot bath, possibly- sounds like heaven.

  
But first, sleep. His body feels like it's weighted by chains all over again, and his feet drag across the carpet as he walks. Bobby steers him up the stairs and toward an open door that leads to a bed with a thick oak frame and a mound of quilts. He moans when he sees it, and feels Bobby's fingers twitch against his spine.

  
Crowley crawls onto the mattress and buries himself in the nest of blankets, leaving only his tail hanging out. The bed smells like the rest of the house, like spice and herbs and dry pages, and he tucks his face into a pillow, breathes deep, and is asleep in seconds. 


	6. Chapter 6

There's sun streaming through the window when he wakes, and he's surprised- he must have only slept for a few hours. He kicks his way out of the blanket and pillow cocoon he's built around himself, sits up and marvels for a few minutes in the softness of the bedding, the ability to stretch and stand or lie back down if he wants to. He thinks about it, and eventually turns and steps out into the hallway.

  
The house is quiet, the distant ticking of a clock and the shuffle of papers downstairs the only indications of activity. He follows the second sound.

  
He finds Bobby in the living room (or is it the library?), flipping through a heavy book and scribbling notes on a sheet of paper in front of him. Crowley takes a moment to watch him silently, and a dozen conflicting emotions tug at his mind. He doesn't know which is real- Bobby the young man from decades ago, fumbling and earnest in his eager attentions, Bobby the hunter, selling Crowley off and disappearing only to return years later as Bobby the savior, freeing him and taking him into his home, Bobby looking at him like Crowley means something, like he belongs here.

  
Bobby looks up, sees him standing in the doorway, and smiles. "There you are. You've been asleep for three days."

  
Oh. More than a few hours, then.

  
"Suppose that means there's no breakfast, then," Crowley ventures.

  
Bobby laughs. "There's cornbread and stew in the kitchen; the stew will be cold but it should be fine."

  
Crowley nods and heads to the kitchen, sniffing the air and determining that he and Bobby are the only ones in the house. He eats two servings of stew and three pieces of cornbread with butter, savoring the meal a bit more than he had the last one. When he finishes he glances up to find Bobby entering the kitchen as well, the book tucked under his arm and his hands in his pockets.

  
"I've likely ruined that bed," Crowley muses aloud, gesturing at the built-up filth that clings to his scales.

  
Bobby shrugs. "Sheets'll wash clean. If not, I'll just throw 'em out and buy new ones. Been meaning to get some new ones anyway."

  
Crowley blinks, nods slowly, still uncertain what game the hunter is playing here. "So about that bath," he says, and the man laughs again.

  
"Second room on the left down this hallway," Bobby says, stepping aside and nodding at the door.

  
The dragon steps into the bathroom and almost immediately knocks over a few bottles with his tail. When he spins around in alarm, a wing catches the shower curtain and tangles in it, knocking him off-balance. He stumbles into the pile of towels in one corner before managing to right himself, the scales around his ears stiffening in embarrassment. He brushes the curtain aside and stands in the tub for a few minutes, trying to work out the mechanics of the thing. There's a knock on the door, and Bobby's muffled voice comes from the hall:

  
"You, uh, pull on the knob and then give the handle next to it a few pumps to get the water going. It'll take a second to heat up."

  
Crowley frowns, squints at the wall and follows the instructions, rewarded a moment later with a cascade of cool water, quickly warming. He runs his palm under it, pleased.

  
"Now you just twist the knob down and plug the tub when you want to fill it for a bath," Bobby explains through the door. "And uh- yeah, just drain it when you're done. There's a- there's towels for when you're done. And there's soap on the shelf." His voice is a bit further away. "I'll leave you alone now." And he's gone before Crowley can answer, which is probably for the best because he would have said something foolish.

  
He rinses off under the spray first, feeling layer after layer of grit slough off. Eventually he bends and plugs up the tub, lets it fill with steaming hot water that would scald a human and sinks into it, almost whimpering at how good it feels. There's a cloth hanging over the edge of the tub, a rough sponge next to it, a bottle of liquid soap and a dish of salts for scrubbing.

  
He uses the sponge and salts, and, when that doesn't quite do the trick, his own claws, scouring away the seeped-in grime and filth from years of travel and abuse. His once gleaming obsidian scales are now more pewter than black, duller and patchy in places. Maybe, he muses as he eyes them critically, maybe once he's eaten enough he'll be able to shed, get rid of the layer of malnourished, ugly scales and grow a new set, and maybe they'll be shining and glossy again. Maybe his wings will grow strong once more and he'll be able to fly again. He imagines, unbidden, spiraling higher and higher into the air and then diving down, swooping and twisting and gliding just above the ground in the stunning display of aerial skill his kind practices in their courtship flights. _Courtship_? He snorts at the thought. Who in the hell is he courting? The hunter that sold him into slavery? Even if he were, his wings aren't strong enough even to lift him from the ground, let alone carry him high into the sky, or flashy enough to draw attention.

  
He steps out, letting the murky water drain, and takes a towel to dab at the clinging drops that gleam like jewels against his faded scales. He pauses in front of the mirror and gets a proper look at himself for the first time. "Look at you," he hisses at his reflection. "What do you think's going to happen, you pathetic thing?" He swipes at the mirror with one wing, clawed fingertips leaving faint scratches in the glass, and turns away. 


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley finishes drying himself off, briefly wonders whether he's expected to wear clothes, decides he doesn't care, and steps out of the bathroom. He sticks his head into the living room but realizes the room is empty at the same time he hears clinking and shuffling in the kitchen.

  
Bobby is standing in front of the sink, washing dishes and humming under his breath. The heavy, rich smell of cooking meat fills the air, and despite his recent meal Crowley's stomach gurgles.

  
"There's a roast in the oven, and I pulled out a bottle of scotch if you're interested." The human glances at Crowley over his shoulder, then back at the pan he's scrubbing. "And there's a couple gold coins in the jar on my desk if you want 'em; I read somewhere that dragons need to eat precious metals for their scales to grow in right."

  
"You don't have to do this," Crowley says slowly.

  
Bobby glances at him again. "What?"

  
"All this- you, acting all- you've got no call for being so kind toward me," he manages, wearied and exasperated by his own inadequate words. "If you're after something, just say what it is. I can't take all this- this cosseting or cozying up or whatever it is you're up to. Whatever you're after, I'm obviously in no position to stop you."

  
"I'm not after anything, and I don't want to take anything from you!" Bobby turns and faces him for the first time, looking pained.

  
Of course he doesn't. Shouldn't have worded it like that. Crowley sighs. He's getting nowhere like this. "Never mind. Let's just eat. And I'll take that drink if you're offering." He sits at the table, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood.

  
Bobby is silent and unmoving for a while, but eventually he sets the pan into the sink and opens the oven. The heat rolls out of the open door in a wave, and Crowley revels in it for a moment, forcing himself not to watch Bobby bend over and take out the roast. The hunter serves up two helpings of meat, with dark bread and mashed potatoes, and then pours each of them a glass of scotch. Crowley remembers how Bobby had choked and coughed at the taste back in the cave, and he smiles a little sadly at the easy way the man swallows it down now.

  
They eat in silence, Crowley trying not to inhale the meal too fast, and Bobby looking like he's about to speak time and time again, only to drop his gaze back to his plate and push his food around. Crowley's tail curls around the leg of his chair, squeezes and releases anxiously. He keeps his eyes on his plate, dragging the tip of one curved claw over the edge of the table until there's a groove in the wood, while Bobby stands, scrapes his plate clean and walks out of the room. The dragon waits a few minutes, knocks back the last swallow of scotch and follows the sound of the man's heartbeat to the living room once more.

  
Bobby is hunched in front of the fireplace, tucking kindling into the logs he has stacked there. He reaches for the matches, cursing under his breath when he breaks one, and Crowley clears his throat, steps closer. The hunter looks up at him with brows raised in question, and instead of speaking, the dragon bends at the waist and spits a small spurt of fire into the pile. The wood crackles and bursts into flame and Bobby grins at him before moving back to settle into one of the two big armchairs. Crowley stands with slightly more difficulty, groaning a little, and turns to catch the human staring at him again.

  
He follows Bobby's gaze, sees himself as the hunter must see him, the way he saw himself in the mirror: skinny, scales dull and falling out, bruised and scarred from the chains, tail broken and healed crooked a dozen times, his once gorgeous wings now battered and torn like rice paper, the colors faded almost to nothing. He feels his shoulders slump, shame stabbing at him and swallowing up the brief pride he'd felt over the fire. Summoning up a wry, tired smile, he spreads one wing in a sort of shrug. "They were something, weren't they?" He asks. "Back in the day." He remembers how eagerly he flashed the bright colors of his wings and thighs, like lures for Bobby's touch. He's nothing to look at now; wouldn't tempt even old Azazel's lust.

  
Bobby surprises him by saying, softly, "They're still something." He raises a hand like he wants to touch, hesitates, and Crowley, despite himself, moves automatically to press into the human's palm the way he did forever ago. Bobby breathes out slowly, like he's amazed, like it's no different than the first time he laid hands on Crowley's wings and they're still magnificent and awe-inspiring. He runs one calloused palm over the ragged membrane, up the ruined limb, gently squeezing at the joints and feeling for breaks, moving up and down each phalange to the clawed tips. "Incredible," he murmurs.

  
Crowley's seconds away from depositing himself into the man's lap and staying there forever, but it's that kind of attitude that got him into trouble the last time. He withdraws the wing slightly, though he hates to lose the hunter's caress, and narrows his eyes, tail twitching. "You wouldn't get a very good price for them," he warns. "Or any part of me anymore, for that matter." It's true that there are still people that will pay a decent price for dragon meat, dragon blood, dragon eyes and organs and wings and claws and teeth and any other part that can be hacked off or torn out without a care for what the outside looks like, but Crowley is hoping that Bobby doesn't know that.

  
Bobby drops his gaze. "I guess I should explain."

  
"I guess you should," Crowley retorts, crossing his arms and feeling some of the old indignation coming back, crushing the urge to wrap Bobby in his wings and keep him.

  
The hunter nods, takes a breath, and begins.


	8. Chapter 8

  
Bobby leans back in the overstuffed armchair by the fire. "I was coming back for you," he says solemnly. "I left to hunt down the dragon that was actually killing people, whatever his name was-"

  
"Azazel." Crowley supplies shortly, taking a seat in the other chair.

  
Bobby nods. "I shouldn't have trapped you. It was stupid and dangerous. I thought-" He rubs the back of his neck, elbows rested on his knees. "I wanted to be sure you weren't lying, that you were really okay and that it would be okay for us to-" He cuts himself off again, shakes his head. "Stupid," he repeats, then looks up at Crowley. "The hunt took a lot longer than I thought it would. He kept slipping away and hiding higher and higher in the mountains. By the time I killed him, a week has passed. I was panicking; I thought you must have starved to death by then."

  
A week without food or water won't kill him, as Crowley has learned over the past thirty years, but it's slightly comforting to know that Bobby didn't intend to let him die there.

  
"Then I got back," Bobby continues, "And you were gone. I figured you must have somehow negated the spell, gotten out on your own. I kind of expected you to hunt me down, to be honest."

  
"I was gone," Crowley seethes, "Because you sold me to that bloody maniac and his freakshow!"

  
"I didn't!" Bobby protests urgently, sitting up straight in his chair. "I swear to you I didn't; I had no idea he was following me. He must've been trying to pick up the remains of my hunts to sell to people." He looks disgusted by the thought, like he's talking about grave-robbing. Which he kind of his, Crowley supposes.

  
He wants to believe Bobby, that's the surprising thing. He wants to let himself think that the human meant to come back for him. He wants to lose the tortures Alistair inflicted and the undercurrent of betrayal that followed him all these years. He wants to believe that Bobby could care for him, when he should be wanting to tear the hunter limb from limb. He wants to feel safe.

  
He hasn't felt safe in such a long time.

  
"Say I believe you," he says after a while. "Then what?"

  
Bobby looks at him, and his voice makes Crowley's chest ache when he says, "Then... I would ask you to stay." His hands are clasped loosely together in front of him, elbows on his knees again. "But only if you want to. You're- I'm not going to keep you here, if that's what you're asking."

  
"You want me to stay here?" Crowley asks incredulously, looking around at the house with all its hunter paraphernalia, breakable objects, flammable books and inexplicably comforting atmosphere.

  
Bobby glances around, too, shrugs. "Or if you want to live in a cave, we could move up into the mountains."

  
Crowley goggles at him. "What about- hunting, and all that?"

  
"I'll still help the boys with their hunts when I can," Bobby says. "But I don't do so much hunting on my own, these days. I research, mostly."

  
"The boys," Crowley echoes faintly. "Won't they take issue with you having a dragon in your home?" Let alone in his bed.

  
Bobby shakes his head. "They understand. Or, well, Sam understands and Dean's getting there." He stands, steps toward Crowley and sinks to his knees in front of him. "Does this mean you're staying?"

  
Crowley squirms in his seat, wings curled in and twitching. "I might do," he says eventually. "Might take a bit more convincing than that, though."

  
Bobby's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he slides one warm, broad hand over Crowley's claws, squeezes. He leans in and Crowley tilts his head down a bit to meet him.

 


End file.
